“But don’t they all work—days?”
Brandon laughed.
“Hardly!”
“You mean, they work nights?”
“Yes.” He threw a quizzical smile into her startled eyes. “By the way,” he observed, “you’d better not ask Frank in that tone of voice if they work nights. That night-shift is a special pet of his. He says it’s one great secret of the mills’ prosperity—having two shifts. Not that his are the only mills that run nights, of course—there are plenty more.”
Margaret’s lips parted, but before she could speak there came a hoarse shout and a quick cry of terror. The next instant the car under Brandon’s skilful hands swerved sharply and just avoided a collision with a boy on a bicycle.
“Narrow shave, that,” muttered Brandon. “He wasn’t even looking where he was going.”
Margaret shuddered. She turned her gaze to the right and to the left. Everywhere were wan faces and sunken eyes. With a little cry she clutched Brandon’s arm.
“Can’t we go faster—faster,” she moaned. “I want to get away—away!”
For answer came the sharp “honk-honk” of the horn, and the car bounded forward. With a shout the crowd fell back, and with another “honk-honk” Brandon took the first turn to the right.